Intruder in the Mind-Palace
by Rerin
Summary: When Sherlock gets lost inside his own head, it's John to the rescue. Fluffy one-shot.


A/N: okay now I know someone must have thought of this before. But someone today reminded me of the horror of socks-with-seams when you're a fidgety kid; I remember many tantrums of shoe-and-sock throwing due to the seams and I'm not the only one.

And I just needed something friends-only and fuzzy, just for one minute. So here it is.

* * *

Intruder in the Mind-Palace

John found Sherlock standing in the middle of the living room, eyes closed, head inclined, hands flicking at the air.

Whatever Sherlock was looking for in that brain of his, John knew better than to interrupt him in the middle of his search.

Two hours later, John started to think it was a little bit strange that it was taking so long. He frowned at Sherlock's hands, which would be still for a long minute, make one tiny gesture, and then grow still again, still poised in the air in front of him.

Suddenly John realized what those motions were. Sherlock was reading a book, an invisible book. He'd hold the book still, close to his chest, then flip an invisible page, pause, then flip another page. John laughed aloud at the thought of Sherlock wandering in his 'mind palace', finding a book on a shelf somewhere in there, and then stopping to read the whole thing, page by page, in his memory.

From the look of things, that was exactly what had happened. John decided to leave him to it.

Much later that night, John checked on him again, and determined he was still reading. _Probably a dictionary_, John thought. _Or maybe the whole Encyclopedia Britannica_.

It was only when he found Sherlock collapsed on the floor the next morning, elbows in and hands trembling each time they made the page-turning motion, that John really began to worry.

John stood over him and kicked him a little. Not hard, just a few swift nudges with his foot. "Hey, Sherlock. Can you hear me? Wake up."

Nothing. John sighed, fetched a glass of water, splashed it on Sherlock's face. Sherlock reacted not at all, which made John bite his lip.

* * *

"Look, he's a GCS six, maybe five," John argued into the phone. "Mycroft. Are you even listening?"

"I understand your concern, John. But if he's locked himself in his own brain, it's because he _wants_ to be there," Mycroft reasoned, sounding far too calm. "He'll come back to you when he's ready."

* * *

Sherlock had been off in his mind palace for well over 24 hours when John decided he could not ignore the issue of dehydration. He rolled up Sherlock's sleeve and found the vein on the first try, then sat back in his chair holding the bag in his hands, watching as his flatmate's body sucked in the fluids.

"You know," he said aloud, not looking at Sherlock. "I wish I could just…go in there, and pull you out." He smiled as he thought of something. "Like in comic books or old sci-fi movies. Colanders over our heads, wires hooked up and running through some big machine."

John glanced down at Sherlock's face, which was even whiter than usual. "Though if _you're_ lost in there I'd probably be twice as lost," he muttered. "I know, your brain's a racing engine or whatever. Mine could never keep up. But I'd still be game for a mind-meld if you were. If that would help get you out of there. Maybe my brain could be the parachute for your screaming race car, slow you down enough to help."

Silence fell, and Sherlock's hand twitched, catching John's attention. Sherlock had stopped making the page-turning motions hours ago, but every now and then his hand would flutter, as if it was dreaming about turning pages. John stared at that hand for a minute, then propped the IV bag up on the chair and crouched down beside his friend.

He grabbed Sherlock's hand and squeezed. "Come on, Sherlock. I want to help," John said.

Then he felt dizzy. He lost the ability to hear and then his vision began to gray out. He let go of Sherlock's hand, and sound and color returned.

John took a few breaths, not doubting that he'd been a few seconds away from blacking out. He looked at Sherlock in accusation. "Did you do that?"

John sighed and looked up, brow wrinkling. "I don't even want to know." He rubbed the back of his neck, and knew there wasn't anything to decide. "All right."

He got up, made one round of the house to make sure everything was in order, cracked one of the windows to let in fresh air, left a note on the door for Mrs. Hudson and another taped to his laptop for Mycroft, noting the time and a basic summary of the facts.

Then, seeing no reason to put it off, he stretched out on the floor next to Sherlock and tried to get comfortable. "I just want you to know," John said to Sherlock's profile, "That if you pull me into your coma and anybody finds us holding hands, _people will definitely talk._"

He smiled at the old joke, reached for Sherlock's hand and squeezed it. Sound snuffed out almost instantly, and then his vision was graying out at the edges, then tunneling, closing into blackness.

John shut his eyes and let it happen. "Your hand's cold," he said, and realized he wasn't holding a hand at all, but a doorknob. He opened his eyes.

* * *

He was standing in the flat, at the door to Sherlock's room. He looked back to where he thought he'd been lying on the floor, but neither his nor Sherlock's body were there. And the window he'd just opened was shut.

This was not at all what John had expected Sherlock's bloody 'mind palace' to be. He thought he'd go and have a closer look at the kitchen, but the doorknob wouldn't let go of his hand.

It was like a magnet, sticking to him. John looked down at his hand in surprise, remembering that in the real world, his hand was still clutching Sherlock's. "Okay," he said to the door, and squeezed the doorknob under his palm. It turned, and the door simultaneously opened and vanished, revealing the space in front of him to be pure white nothingness. "That's more like it," John muttered tensely, and looked over his shoulder just to check.

Sure enough, when he faced that way, he was standing in the doorway to Sherlock's room, looking out into their flat. When he turned around, he was facing nothing but white. No walls, no ceiling, no features at all. "Still doesn't look much like a palace, though," John grumbled, and stepped forward into it.

There was solid ground under his feet, at least. And now, as he walked forward, he started to see the faint outlines of architecture, walls that intersected at corners that made no sense, geometrically. After a short ways he looked back over his shoulder, hoping to see the open door back into the flat.

It was gone. Everything was just white and impossible corners in all directions. John sighed. "Lost already, wonderful," he muttered, and cleared his throat. "Sherlock? Are you in here?"

He had a strange sensation of moving up, like in an elevator, or maybe just all the walls and corners were moving down. And then, suddenly, there was a 90-degree tilt, and John had to fight the instinct to go down on all fours and try to hold on to the floor.

"What are you doing here?" asked Sherlock's voice, but even as John knew it was him, he also knew the voice was…he turned around.

A kid. It was Sherlock, unmistakably, as a little five-or-six-year-old child, sitting cross-legged and naked on the floor. There was a needle inserted in the crook of his arm, where John had stuck the IV.

"Where are your clothes?" John asked automatically.

"The socks have seams," the little boy replied, looking up solemnly at John. "I can feel the seams on my feet and they make me mad."

"Can't you just imagine some socks that don't have any seams?" John asked.

The boy rolled his eyes. "Doesn't work like that. I can't just make up whatever I want."

"Why not?" John waved an arm at their surroundings. "This is all in your head, isn't it? That's what imaginations are for. Inventing things."

"But it's not my imagination, it's my memory," Sherlock said, studying John with too-serious eyes.

"Do you remember who I am?" John tested.

Sherlock's eyes flickered over him from head to toe. "No," he said at last.

"Okay, that's… something to start with, I suppose," John said carefully. "Do you, em, do you remember reading a book, recently? It looked like you were reading a book in here."

"Are you a teacher?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"…No," John told him.

"Then what are you?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm your friend," said John. "Sherlock. What year do you think it is?"

"No," Sherlock replied, shaking his head. "Doesn't work like that, in here."

John sighed. "Okay, how does it work?"

"Just answer my questions," the child said in a low, slow voice. "_What are you doing here?_"

"I'm trying to get you out, get you back to reality," John answered.

"_Are you a teacher?_" Sherlock asked.

John felt a weight of worry settle around him. A repeat question… and so was the first one, now that John thought about it. Probably a bad sign. "No… Sherlock, I already answered that one."

"_Then what are you?_"

John stopped. Same three questions, why? "I'm your friend," John repeated. "There—it's my turn now. I answered three of yours, so now you have to answer three of mine. And I need you to really concentrate before you answer."

John stopped to think, playing their conversation back in his mind. "_Where are your clothes?_" he asked. "Come on, Sherlock, remember."

"In my room," the child answered. "At Baker Street. And on my body. At Baker Street."

"Good," John said, feeling hopeful. "Next question… let's see… _Do you remember who I am?_"

"Yes," Sherlock said this time, narrowing his eyes. "You're my friend… John."

"That's right," John breathed. "Last question. _How does it work?_"

"I…I don't know," the boy said, voice trembling. "I forgot how… I forgot how it works, I don't know how to get out. I can't answer your question. I can't answer it. It's invalid. It's broken." Tears began to run down his face.

"Don't worry," John said softly. "I'm here. I'll help you." He sat down next to the child, copying his cross-legged pose. "Let's think about it, okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock sniffled. He scratched at the needle in his arm. "This itches."

"Leave it alone, it will be fine. I'll take it out as soon as we get home. Can you be patient?"

"Rarely," the boy admitted, rubbing his eyes with his wrist.

John smiled, and then suddenly thought of something. "Sherlock, I have an idea," he said, and held out his hand. Without a word, the little boy reached sideways and grabbed it.

* * *

And then John was blinking up at the ceiling at Baker Street. Sherlock's cold fingers tightened around his.

"How'd you do it?" Sherlock asked, letting go and sitting up. He looked surprised at the IV in his arm, and quickly peeled off the tape and slid the needle out.

John took a deep breath, also sitting up. He looked around at the clock. Four hours. It had only felt like a couple of minutes. "You said we were in your memory. But I didn't remember that place, and I'd never met you as a little kid, so how could I be remembering you? I figured that meant we were _also_ in my imagination. So I just had to imagine us getting out."

"Won't work next time," Sherlock said gravely. "Now that you've been there, next time it will be _your _memory too, and you'll be trapped same as I was."

"Let's just not have a next time, all right?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed with amusement. "Are you telling me to stay out of my own mind?"

"Sometimes I think you're already out of your mind," John muttered. "Sometimes I think _I_ must be out of mine, too. And I'd definitely like to stay out of _yours_, from now on."

"Too scary?" Sherlock taunted.

"Too lonely," John corrected. "Just… try and stay here? In the real world. With me."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. He couldn't promise.

But for John, he could try.

The End.


End file.
